Page 86 of Bratva Bride
"Mr. Volkov?" The voice was carefully neutral. "This is Dr. Patrick Held. I believe you were looking for someone with my particular skill set?"
The private investigator. The one who specialized in the kind of surveillance that would put us all in federal prison if discovered.
"Can you get inside?" I asked without preamble.
"Interior surveillance of the location you specified?" A pause, calculations happening. "Dangerous. Expensive. Highly illegal."
"I don't care about any of that. Can you get inside?"
Another pause. "I have a contact on the household staff. Someone who might be motivated to help for the right price."
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand for the initial approach. Another hundred if they agree. Plus expenses."
"Done. I also want you to look into the bombing. I need someone with your skills and no Bratva traceability. How soon?"
"I can have something in twenty-four hours. Audio only at first—video requires more complex equipment."
Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four more hours of not knowing what was happening to her.
"Do it," I said. "Whatever it takes."
After I hung up, Clara touched my arm gently. "Ivan, that's—"
"Illegal? Dangerous? Likely to make everything worse if Viktor finds out?" I laughed, but it came out cracked. "Do you know what he could be doing to her? She has information about me,about us, about our family. He will try to get it out of her. I can’t let him hurt her. Do you understand?”
Eva's expression darkened. She knew—better than most—what could happen to vulnerable women in the hands of controlling men.
"We'll stay with you," she said quietly. "Until you get the information. Until you get her back."
Twentyfourhourslater,the compound's war room felt like a bunker preparing for siege—which wasn't far from the truth.
My brothers were already there when I arrived. Alexei stood at the head of the conference table, his patrician features carved from granite. Dmitry paced near the weapons rack, radiating the particular energy that preceded violence. Our head of security, Mikhail, worked at a laptop, pulling up files. And my private investigator sat apart from the others, clearly uncomfortable in a room full of bratva leadership.
"Tell me," I said without preamble. No greetings. No sitting down. Just the desperate need for information that might get Anya back.
Patrick Held gestured to the wall of monitors that dominated the room's north side. "I’ve been doing some digging. Security footage from a parking garage in Queens. Two days before the bombing."
The screen flickered to life, grainy but clear enough. Sergei Kozlov's distinctive bulk getting out of a Mercedes. Another figure approaching—smaller, wearing a Morozov construction company jacket, the logo visible even in the dim lighting.
"That's Kozlov," Dmitry said unnecessarily, his voice tight with rage. "Meeting with one of Viktor's people."
"Not just one of Viktor's people," Held corrected, zooming in on the second figure's face. "Viktor's nephew. Andrei Morozov. The one who handles 'special security consulting' for the family."
My blood went cold. Viktor's nephew. Family. Inner circle. This wasn't some low-level soldier bought off—this was someone with direct access to Viktor himself.
"We have audio?" I asked, though the answer was already forming in my stomach like lead.
Held nodded, pulling up another file. The sound quality was degraded, processed through multiple filters, but the words were clear enough:
"Shift change happens at 2:30." Andrei's voice, younger, eager to please. "Both crews overlap for about twenty minutes. Maximum impact window."
"And the Volkov security?" Kozlov asked.
"My uncle made sure they're focused on the waterfront properties. The Red Hook site will be minimally covered."
My uncle. Viktor. Viktor had redirected our security away from the bombing site.
